


Not Christmas

by CrimsonScreech



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonScreech/pseuds/CrimsonScreech
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not Christmas if you make spaghetti</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Christmas

Derek stops breathing, calculating the weight of the box in his hands. He plays with the dark blue box, each side no longer than his pinky finger and wrapped in a silver bow. Even if he couldn’t smell the cocoa nut lotion and the smell of hospital that always follows Melissa McCall, he’d know Stiles didn’t wrap this. He’d bet money on it.  
“What is this?” Derek asks quietly when he finally musters the courage to talk.  
“Open it and find out dumbass.” Stiles rolls his eyes, loading heap after heap of spaghetti into the glass container.   
His entire kitchen supply is in sink, all the silverware and dishes waiting to be washed and put back into his cabinets. The smell of garlic and tomatoes is suffocating and Derek could drown on it, his tongue thick and the fermenting food leaving a disgusting, overpowering hint of nastiness on his tongue. He’ll be eating that spaghetti for a week.  
He should’ve hit Stiles up to make him more garlic bread.  
“I mean what’s it for?” Derek huffs, fingers itching to play with the ribbon. If he does he might not be able to put it back together again, “I didn’t get you anything. I’m not a gift giver.”  
“You know what it’s for.” The words knock the air out of his chest and Stiles leaves him on the end of this scathing look. The blush slowly rises on Stiles cheeks stands out in the dull lighting of his apartment, his mouth set in a way caught between smiling and scowling, “Like I’d make you spaghetti for Christmas dinner.”  
The ribbon hisses as he pulls it loose from the box, picking at the tape binding the wrapping together. He peels it free while Stiles attempts to busy himself. He isn’t, he’s watching and lingering, waiting for him to react. It’s a tie, a crisp black tie that smells like the mall downtown. He doesn’t know how to breathe.  
“I have the receipt if you don’t like it.” Stiles slides the container into the fridge to keep his lonely gallon of milk company, “If not, try not to murder anyone with it.”  
“Thanks.” Derek takes it out of the box busying himself by feeling out the fabric. He can’t remember the last time someone gave him something. He’s never actually gotten a legitimate birthday gift. Paige gave him a belated birthday CD with his Christmas gifts but there’s never a difference. Just more Christmas wrapping paper and messy wrapping, “I’ll do my best to save it for special occasions.”  
Stiles shrugs, eyeing his hands and the tie.


End file.
